Wise Blood
by lithiumm
Summary: When the arrival of a boy from another time threatens to alter the course fated for the Wizarding World, an an unlikely hero emerges. Part II of "The Poison Tree" series. AU. Dark. Gay. Next Gen. JSPxOC.
1. The Beach

A/N: So this has been a long time coming - a proper sequel to my first fanfic _Through the Past, Darkly_. If you followed that story's progression, you will not be surprised at how long it's taken me to get my shit together with this one. But I've written a significant-enough portion of this - enough to start posting and not be tempted to throw it out and start from scratch (like I did before).

Just a few things to put out there before we get on with it: I'm going to try and post warnings with each chapter, but I want to give a blanket warning for violence, sexual content, suicidal ideation, substance abuse, emotional abuse, physical abuse, and self-harm. If there is anything I'm not giving a warning about that you think I should (for yourself or the benefit of others) please let me know. The stories I write are dark. If that's not your thing, you won't enjoy this.

This is a next-gen story that involves a same-sex pairing of James Sirius Potter with my OC, Francis Crowley. It's canon-divergent in the sense that I think _Harry Potter and the Cursed Child_ (which is considered cannon, I guess?) was completely disappointing and I wanted to write my own take on the "Voldemort's child" idea. Also, many of the OCs and events that took place in _Through the Past, Darkly_ (which are canon-divergent) are important to the developments in this story.

That being said, if you haven't read _Through the Past, Darkly_ I think you may be confused by some things. Of course I recommend you read that story first, but if you don't want to for whatever reason, I'll try to offer enough explanation (these explanations may be spoilers though). If there's anything that makes absolutely no sense, please let me know and I'll try to remedy it.

So now that I've probably convinced you not to read any further, here's this story I've been working on. Make of it what you will. Reviews, as always, are greatly appreciated.

* * *

I.  
The Beach  
[Brighton | July 1958]

* * *

On a cold day in mid-July the sun is struggling to crack through the thick layer of clouds that's settled over the stretch of beach upon which the carnival has set up. Children are milling about screaming, both good screams and bad screams, as their parents hobble after them, clutching their purses lest the greedy workers try to pinch a few more hard-earned shillings when they're not looking. A young boy, Francis Crowley, stands in a cluster of other similarly-situated young boys, wishing the summer would just speed up already so he could return to Hogwarts.

"Got any decent girls at that fancy school of yours?" Gregory asks, surveying the crowd. It's too cold for any sensible woman to be lounging around in a bathing suit, so there's disappointment all around. Francis shrugs.

"I could have any girl here." Gregory says confidently. Where this confidence is coming from is anybody's guess.

"I'd like to see you try." Arnold pipes up.

"Watch this." Gregory sets off for the cotton candy stand, buys one, and turns to the girl waiting in line behind him. While the rest of the boys watch in eager anticipation for Gregory to get a slap in the face, Francis has already wandered off.

"You look like you've lost your way." A tall, dark man peers down at him. His eyes, in the midday gloom, glow an eerie yellow.

"Just looking around." Francis shrugs. "Might fancy a swim."

"I wouldn't swim here if I were you." The man with the yellow eyes says. Francis notices his hands are covered in intricate tattoos. "Look's like a storm's coming in." There was something odd about this kid that gave the man pause, something so _familiar_ about him. "Have you ever had your fortune read? Madame Cynthia is very talented. Can see your whole future right there in the palm of your hand."

"No thanks. I'd rather not know." Francis was telling the truth. As it happens, he's come to recognize that sometimes a peek through the crack in the door is worse than having no clue as to what's on the other side. Instead of walking back towards the other boys, he turns and walks toward the water.

"Mr. Dark! There you are. There's an issue with the carousel." A frantic woman rushes up and thoroughly distracts Mr. Dark, making him momentarily forget all about the boy he'd just met that is now walking slowly into the ocean.

He is still in his clothes, but it doesn't matter. The water is cold and clean and the salt lets him float like his body is immaterial, a spare piece of flotsam tossed about by the rough waves. When his feet can no longer feel the ocean floor he starts to paddle out farther. The tide carries him the rest of the way. Some specks of people start to gather on the shoreline, some even start shouting at him and waiving their hands. Francis can hear their shouts, and then he can't.

Something shifted. The waves calm down, the sun peaks out from behind the clouds, and suddenly everything is quiet. After a moment of floating there, unsure what to do, he begins to swim back to shore. As he grows closer he notices the beach is no longer full of people waving about and shouting, but is completely deserted. Everyone is gone. The carnival, the children, the parents, the group of boys from the orphanage. The beach is empty and Francis is sopping wet. It was much warmer than it was before, though, so at least he starts to dry quickly in the powerful sunshine.

"Oi! You there!" A harsh voice shouts across the sand.

"Wha?" Francis turns around quickly. A stout man in a crumpled uniform is approaching him, his mustache a thick bristle below his bulbous nose. Francis' first thought is that he's a police officer, but he doesn't _look_ like a police officer.

"Where's your mum?" The man in uniform asks.

"Don't have one." Francis answers honestly.

"This beach is closed." The man says. "You can't swim here. Nobody can swim here. Where you from?"

"London."

"You here on your own? All the way from London?" The man with the bristly mustache frowns, squints out toward the road, then starts fiddling with something in his pocket.

"I was with a group. From the orphanage. It looks like they all left though."

"Orphanage?" The man can't help but laugh. He sizes the boy up and takes notice of the clothes he's wearing. Coarse wool pants and a stained button-down shirt, sleeves rolled up. He certainly _looked_ like he just came from an orphanage. The trouble was, all the orphanages in London have been closed for at least thirty years.


	2. Everything Changes

A/N: Warning - suicide attempt; suicidal ideation.

* * *

II.

Everything Changes

[St. Mungo's Hospital | July 2017]

* * *

"Someone's here to see you." A young lady with a kind voice and remarkably expressive eyebrows says, leaning casually in the doorjamb with her clipboard propped against her hip. "You feel like you could eat?" Francis nods slowly, the sedatives making all his movements feel like he's stuck in a vat of gelatin. He'd been afraid to eat the food thus far for fear that he's been captured by faeries, but resigns himself to the fact that his hunger is at the point where it simply cannot be ignored. Such a standpoint didn't earn him any points in the mental heath department in any case. She nods happily and disappears, to be replaced by another woman, whose voice is not nearly as kind, and whose demeanor is not nearly as cheery.

"Good afternoon." Minerva McGonagall greets the pale young man propped up in the hospital bed.

"Is it?" Francis blinks at the woman. "You're from Hogwarts? Professor McGonagall?"

"Yes." She is a little taken aback. How does this child recognize her? Perhaps from a picture? But she hasn't been a professor in many years… "I was contacted by the ministry this morning. They said a young wizard turned up by the name Francis Crowley, claiming he was a third year at Hogwarts." Francis nods. "Is that your name?" Francis nods. "And you have studied magic at Hogwarts?" Francis nods. "Can you show me a simple levitation spell?" Professor McGonagall hands her wand to the young boy apprehensively, and to her bemusement he performs the spell expertly. "I see. Well done." She's not sure what to do. Probably best not to tell him too much at this juncture…

"Professor?"

"Yes?"

"What year is it?" Francis asks, dead serious.

"Why it's 2017, has been all year." McGonagall laughs dryly. "Why don't you get some rest. We'll talk again soon."

The cheerful nurse reappears with a tray of unappetizing food and presents it to Francis with the flourish of a waiter in a gourmet restaurant. "Heirloom cabbage stuffed with delicately seasoned grass-fed beef." She announces. "Bon appetite!" No sooner had she turned her back than the whole tray had been cleaned.

"Albus, _stop_!" A whine echoes down the corridor, followed by two boys, their trainers slapping the waxed floor.

"_You_ stop!" Albus shouts.

"Boys! No running in the hospital! People here are trying to rest!" An older version of the two boys comes striding toward them, and grabs each by the arm.

"Ow, dad that hurts!" Albus, the younger one, recoils at his father's firm grip.

"Mr. Potter?" The cheerful nurse turns the corner.

"Sorry for the commotion. It's turned into take your child to work day, I'm afraid. Babysitter bailed on us." Harry looks sternly at the two boys. "Where's your sister?"

"She's right there." The older boy, James, points to the space next to his father, where a young girl stands not making a sound.

"Ah. See, this is how you're _supposed_ to behave in public. Well done, Lily." Harry says, patting her on the head. "I'm here to interview um…let's see…" He squints at what appears to be a hastily handwritten note. "Francis Crowley? Is that right?"

"You're quite a popular guy, Francis." The nurse says, turning to the young man in the bed. "Are you up for another talk?" Francis rolls his eyes. "Be gentle with him. He was very upset when he came in, but we've given him something to take the edge off." She says quietly to Harry before giving them privacy.

"Mr. Crowley? Can I call you Francis?" Harry says, oddly formal, as he approaches the bed.

"Doesn't matter." Francis stares past Harry's right shoulder at the wall, where a small stream of oddly-colored moisture is leaking from the ceiling.

"Do you know who I am?" Harry asks.

"No, sir. I do not." Francis looks him up and down. Messy hair, smudgy round glasses, a lightning bolt scar scratched into his forehead. Then he sees the badge. "You're an auror. You're here to arrest me? But I didn't do anything. Killing yourself isn't a crime."

"You tried to kill yourself?" Harry flips open a pad of parchment and jots something down.

"Maybe. I dunno. It's all strange. What I do know is I don't belong here." There's something frantic in the boy's eyes, despite his drug-calmed demeanor. "But they won't let me leave."

"You said that you go to Hogwarts? That you're in your third year?" Francis nods. "James, come over here." He beckons his eldest son to the side of Francis' bed. "This is my son, James. He's also in his third year at Hogwarts. James, do you recognize him?"

"What house are you in?" James has never seen this kid in his life.

"Slytherin." Francis says, confused as to why he doesn't recognize James at all.

"Nope. Never seen him before." James says to his dad. "What's your deal?"

"I don't understand?" Francis squints at James, not understanding the phrase.

"That's enough, James. Go watch your brother, will you?" Harry dismisses the child, who sneaks up on his younger brother from behind and gives both of his ears a good grab, yanking hard.

"Can you give me the names of your friends at Hogwarts?" Harry flips to a new page in his notebook.

"Friends?" Francis frowns.

"Classmates, then?" Harry wishes he could order up some drugs for his own children at this point.

"Why are you asking me this? What's this all about?" Francis wants this man to leave. "You think I'm crazy, that nurse thinks I'm crazy, but I'm not crazy."

"No, I don't think you're crazy, Francis. I know you just went through a lot."

"I did? What did I go through?"

"Why don't you tell me? I'm here to help, that's all. Nobody's in trouble here." Harry tries to sound reassuring, but it really isn't his strong suit. He's starting to get the sense that there is something deeply wrong here, but he can't quite put his finger on it.

Francis considers it. He really does. For a whole second he thinks about telling this guy, Harry, that he's from the past, and now he's stuck in the future with no way back. But that would be the very definition of counter-productive, and most likely earn him a permanent spot in this dreadful place.

"Why can't anybody tell me what's going on?" Francis mutters, casting a glance at the two brothers wrestling with each other in the corner.

"You don't remember anything?" Harry asks, noting that the young man before him looks more frightened than anything.

"No. I don't." Francis looks at his hands, palms up on the blanket. He remembers everything.


	3. First Blush

III.  
First Blush  
[Hogwarts | September 2017]

* * *

"What do you mean they're in the restricted section? They're bloody newspapers!" One can only imagine the scandalous knowledge a newspaper may impart to Francis' young and impressionable mind. Quidditch scores, who won the local election, what new brand of slug repellant has been recalled for safety…

"Language, young man! And volume! You're in a _library_!" Madame Pince shushes him sternly. "I don't make the rules, I just enforce them."

"If I had a knut for every time someone said that to me…" Francis mutters.

"Another word out of you and it'll be fifty points from Slytherin." She says this like it's a threat.

"Oh no! Wouldn't want to lose any house points. Heaven forbid." His sarcasm is not lost on Madame Pince, who slams a book down on the counter before her. Everyone in the library turns to look in her direction.

"Detention, Mr…what's your name?"

"Potter." Francis says. Everyone loves the Potters so much you'd think they're all personally responsible for ridding the world of evil. Madame Pince narrows her eyes as if to say _nice try_. "Can you just tell me _why_ I can't look at a newspaper from 1958?"

She gives the answer everyone gives when they don't know but don't want to sacrifice their authority. "Because."

As Francis drags himself out, trying to figure out which professor he might manage to convince to give him a permission slip to check out a stupid newspaper, he walks right into James Potter, who's carrying an armful of books.

"Watch where you're—" He starts, but when he realizes who it is, quickly changes course. "Oh, sorry, you alright? Let me get those—" He scrambles to pick up the books and hands them back to James Potter. Apparently even he thinks the Potters are royalty.

"You're the guy from the hospital." James says, remembering the scruffy boy who was rude to his father. "The one my dad was talking too. Did they ever figure out what happened to you?"

"No." Francis feels his face getting hot. "Figures though, right? I mean, what do they know?"

"Huh?" James adjusts the books in his arms.

"So when did they start locking up newspapers around here?"

"Newspapers?"

"You know, the old issues of the _Prophet_. The librarian won't let me look at one, says I need permission."

"Why d'you want to look at an old newspaper?" James has never looked at a newspaper in his life. Those are for old people, and for pets to use as toilets.

"Thought it might help me figure out what happened." Francis looks around, as if Madame Pince might be hovering just behind him. "Not only that, I can't seem to find any books on recent history..."

"Oh." James nods. "I dunno. There's a lot of stuff in the restricted section now that wasn't before. That's what my dad says anyway. After the battle of Hogwarts, they wanted to prevent other students from getting their hands on anything even remotely dangerous."

"There was a battle? At Hogwarts?"

"Um, yeah. Everyone knows that. You really did lose it, didn't you?" James laughs. Francis doesn't. "Anyway, I gotta read these." James looks down at the stack of books he's carrying with immense distaste.

"Have fun with that." Francis pushes past him and continues out of the library. As he walks, he wipes the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.


	4. Looking in a Mirror

IV.  
Looking in a Mirror  
[Hogwarts | December 2017]

* * *

Francis Crowley is in the process of working his way through the Hogwarts library. Every moment he is not in class or eating, Francis is in the library reading. At the rate he's going he'll never be able to read _everything_, but at least he'll be able to tackle the essentials within the next few years. The only thing he can't find much information on is this wizarding war everyone seems to know about. All he's managed to learn is that Harry Potter saved the world and now everyone's a lot better off because of it. Nobody wants to talk about it, even the Hogwarts professors.

While the practice of censorship has changed for the worse, at least Hogwarts has changed it's policy about students staying over the winter holidays since 1958, so he'll be able to log at least 10 solid hours of reading per day and won't have to try and figure out a place to live. The librarian, Madame Pince, knows him by name now, which is an unfortunate consequence of spending so much time with her. You'd think she'd warm up to him after a while, but she's only grown more annoyed at his constant presence, and perhaps a tad suspicious as well. What could he possibly be researching? And what's more, why hasn't he got any _friends_?

"Will the library be open during the holidays?" Francis leans casually on the check-out desk.

"Don't you have a family to go home to, Mr. Crowley?" Madame Pince shakes her head.

"Nope." Francis responds bluntly.

"Why don't you go stay with a friend over the holidays. Get out a little. It's good for you." Such an absurd remark doesn't deserve a response. He wanders back to the stacks and returns with twenty books on various topics — whatever looked interesting at the moment. He had to have enough material to sustain him until school started again.

"I'd like to check these out now then."

"You can only check out three books at a time." Madame Pince says sourly.

"_Three_? Can't you make an exception?"

"Those are the rules, Mr. Crowley."

"Fine." He selects the three largest books. "I'll take these."

"You know we keep track of every book you take out." She says, writing down the titles under the date in the register. _Communicating with the Departed, A Primer_. _Gazing into the Abyss. Memory Magic: Delving Into Forgotten Realms._

"Obviously? You're a librarian?"

"Enjoy your holidays, Mr. Crowley." She pushes the books towards him and closes the register with a thump like a gavel. Judgment entered.

Francis carries the books back to his dormitory, plops them on his four-poster bed and yanks the curtains shut. Against the headboard he props a small mirror he's stolen from one of the girls' bathrooms, the one with the ghost that nobody ever goes in. He lights a candle and sets it on one of the closed books. Thus begins Francis' first efforts at communicating with the dead.


End file.
